


Five Years' Time

by goldlillyblue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldlillyblue/pseuds/goldlillyblue
Summary: Bellamy spent five years inside the bunker agonizing over Clarke's fate. Unable to accept the possibility that she died in the radiation wave, he sets out in search of her as soon as they unseal the doors. On his way, he stumbles upon something that he never expected to find.





	1. Release

It took five years, two weeks, and one day for Bellamy to find Clarke after she slammed the heavy metal door in his face and locked herself out of the bunker. In all that time, trapped inside with the other Skaikru survivors and waiting for the radiation to subside, he never allowed himself to believe that she was dead.

She had looked fiercely at him through the window in the door as he pounded on the glass, yelling for her to come back in, to save herself, to let him shoulder this burden.

Tears were gliding down her cheeks, but she made no move to open the door. Instead, she mouthed three words to him through the glass. They weren't the three words that he wanted to hear, that he had been aching for months to say to her himself. Still, they would echo in his brain every night for the next five years as he struggled to fall asleep: "Stay alive, Bellamy."

He answered with three words of his own, a promise based on the stubborn belief that she would somehow manage to survive. "I'll find you."

She pressed her hand briefly against the window, nodded, and shut the outer door. He heard the sharp hiss of air as Clarke activated the hermetic seal from outside. More faintly, he heard the metal clicking of the third door's spinning wheel mechanism, and then the heavy thud of the triple-reinforced steel doors beyond that. He couldn't hear anything else, but he imagined her making her way back through the maze of hallways, shutting and sealing every door as she went. And she was gone.

* * *

He never forgave himself for not realizing what she was planning. In retrospect, he ought to have been suspicious that she agreed so easily to let him be the one. As soon as he understood the sacrifice that would have to be made—one life risked and probably lost, in order to protect the rest—he resolved to do it himself. He was quick and resourceful, he reasoned, and maybe he would have a fighting chance at locating some last-minute shelter from the incoming wave. Of course, beneath all that reasoning, he knew it was a long shot. The person who sealed the door would never survive. They decided between the two of them not to tell the others. Their people had finally found the refuge they needed. The relief from the constant hum of dread that had haunted them all for months was too sweet to darken with this terrible choice.

So when the time came, Bellamy steeled himself for the end by circling the bunker, taking in the faces of all the people he would be protecting—the people who deserved to survive. Monty and Jasper, chuckling together over some private joke. Octavia, curled under a blanket and sleeping peacefully for what must have been the first time in months. He didn't dare wake her and disturb that hard-earned peace. Raven, fiddling with an old radio and talking animatedly to Kane.

And Clarke. He caught sight of her on the opposite end of the wide entrance hall in hushed conversation with her mother. As Bellamy watched, allowing his gaze to linger on the burnt gold of her hair, the firm set of her chin, the intensity in her eyes, Clarke clasped Abby in a brief but tight embrace and whispered something in her ear.

Abby jerked backward, looking distressed. She started speaking frantically, shaking her head and raising her voice as Clarke disentangled herself and started backing toward the door. Then Clarke lifted her chin and met Bellamy's gaze across the room, and his heart dropped because suddenly he  _knew._

He broke into a sprint, leaping over cots and scattered possessions, his heart a battering ram against his rib cage, one desperate word reverberating behind his ears:  _No, no, no…_

If he had only understood a moment earlier, or if he hadn't been so far away, if he had run more quickly, if he hadn't briefly halted his momentum to avoid careening into a small child who toddled into his path, he might have managed to stop her. But he didn't reach her in time, and when he skidded around the final corner with a breathless "Clarke, don't…!" she was already shutting the door and pulling down the heavy metal latch.

* * *

When they finally set themselves free, unsealing the many tiers of airtight doors and spilling out into the open air—after five endless years, plus a few agonizing weeks of air quality tests and water quality tests and intense worry that no matter how long they waited, it would  _never_ be enough time for the radiation to clear—Bellamy immediately set out in search of her. He had promised, after all, and he had stayed alive through five full years, feeling her absence like a hole in his lungs, like a splinter in his eye, like a bullet lodged in his gut.

No one tried to stop him. No one even tried to slow him down. He was Bellamy, after all, and she was Clarke, and they wouldn't be themselves unless they were searching for each other. They had all watched him for the past few weeks vibrating with a desperate energy, packing and re-packing his things, poring over maps, muttering to himself about the second bunker, 1.77 kilometers, the obelisk beside the statue beside the river.

This had been their last hope as they searched for salvation. Conspiracies hosted on old, archived web pages, plus a healthy dose of luck, had led them to the bunker where Skaikru had survived for the last half-decade. The bunker was buried deep beneath an expansive but crumbling white mansion, so overgrown with vegetation that Bellamy nearly broke his ankle tripping on a half-buried metal rectangle marked Pennsylvania Avenue in faded block letters. Those same websites had whispered about another bunker, constructed for the wealthy and the powerful, hidden deep below the great obelisk that had once towered over a capital city. It was just over a mile away. When they found the first bunker stocked with a decade's worth of food, equipped with water and air filtration mechanisms, with enough space to comfortably house all of the straggling survivors, they didn't feel the need to investigate the obelisk bunker. But that must be where Clarke had gone. It was close by, and she wouldn't have had much time. If the circumstances were just right—it wasn't even that far a reach, to think that the other bunker would be stocked, and livable, and ( _please please please_ ) sealable from the inside—she could have made it. She must have.

Bellamy crashed and trampled through the woods, his heart slamming a familiar rhythm against his ribs ( _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ ). His eyes were on the horizon and his mind was twenty minutes in the future, when he would locate the obelisk and unseal the bunker and find her there safe, healthy, breathing. He was so focused on the bubble of hope welling in his chest that he leaped instinctively over a small animal huddled in his path. Then he skidded to a halt and wheeled around to stare at what was unmistakably a tiny, lost-looking child.

This was not a child from the bunker. He was dressed in what looked like Grounder attire, his tiny frame swallowed by a soft fur overcoat. He couldn't have been more than four years old. The child stared at him with huge brown eyes but didn't move or speak.

Bellamy's heart urged him to turn around, keep running, go find Clarke, but as he gazed around the forest clearing he realized there was no one at all in sight. Where were this child's parents? More importantly— _who_ were his parents and  _how_ did this child exist? He was small enough that he must have been born after the radiation wave hit.

"Uh…hello," said Bellamy uncertainly, edging closer, cautious in case he frightened the boy. "What's your name?"

The boy didn't answer, just sniffed quietly and reached out stubby arms toward Bellamy. Bellamy's heart ached with a sudden flash of memory: a four-year-old Octavia, giggling and reaching her arms out to him, wanting to be held. Without thinking, he scooped up the child and balanced him lightly on his hip.

"Okay, buddy," Bellamy said, "we need to find your family. You've gotta belong to somebody, right?" The child looked solemnly into Bellamy's eyes and hiccupped.

There was a horrible suspicion forming in the back of Bellamy's mind, one that he realized had started creeping in the moment that he threw wide the bunker's outermost door. His eyes had been dazzled first by the blazing sunlight, and then by the brilliant green of the trees. Now, standing in the quiet clearing, he heard birds chirping, insects humming, small mammals moving through the underbrush. This was not the grey and ashy nuclear wasteland that he had been expecting. He hadn't given himself time to think about that before, as he was sprinting through the forest with his mind on Clarke. But now—how was it that this forest ecosystem seemed fully recovered from a wave of radiation that ought to have burned it to the ground?

A faint buzzing in the distance caught Bellamy's ear, and he cocked his head toward the sound. In his arms, the boy imitated the motion of Bellamy's head, tilting his chin to the side and smiling with some unexplained delight. The corner of Bellamy's mouth curled upward into the ghost of a smile. When was the last time he had smiled? He hitched the child higher on his hip and began to make his way toward the distant noise.

As he grew closer, the buzzing shaped itself into human voices, many voices overlapping, laughing, shouting, singing. A few moments later, he emerged into the middle of a bustling marketplace in a Grounder village.

He blinked with surprise and hesitated at the edge of the milling crowd, absorbing the implications of the scene. There were at least a hundred people jostling about the square, haggling over wares, lounging beneath the shade of trees whose verdant foliage was very much alive. There were no signs of radiation here, at least not visible ones. To his left, a group of children splashed in a stream and shrieked with laughter.

A young woman looked at him curiously, then said something in rapid Trigedasleng.

"I'm sorry," Bellamy replied, struggling to follow. "I don't understand." He adjusted his grip on the child, who was snuggled sleepily against his chest. "Does he belong here?"

The woman stared, eyes shifting from Bellamy's face to his jacket to his holster. "Skaikru?" she asked, sounding excited.

"Yes," Bellamy answered, "Yes, Skaikru. Do you know…?"

But the woman had turned excitedly and was shouting at the crowd. Several people paused, stared, and then started shouting back in return. Bellamy listened helplessly, five years of isolation with his own people leaving his already poor Trigedasleng too rusty to comprehend what was being said. But his heart leapt when a particular word started to pass through the crowd…a word that sounded very much like "Clarke."

Several people crowded around him and started guiding him by the elbow out of the market square. A few young men ran ahead, shouting and jostling each other, and now there was  _no_ mistaking it, they were yelling a single word again and again and it sounded so very, very much like her name. He didn't dare believe it, though. There was probably a word in Trigedasleng like  _klark_ that meant "visitor" or "stranger" or "Hey neighbor, this weird guy just wandered into our village carrying your kid." He couldn't believe it. He didn't dare to.

But then she emerged from behind a hut, looking frazzled and slightly tearful. A huge, dazzling smile lit up her features and she broke immediately into a run. Bellamy had never felt such a dizzying rush of emotion—shock, relief, joy, affection—and then, confusion, as her gaze focused on the child on his hip and she swung the boy into her arms, cupping his dark curls protectively and gasping with giddy relief, "Gus! Gus! I was so worried, where on earth did you go? I can't believe—"

The words died on her lips as she raised her eyes to meet Bellamy's. She swayed slightly on her feet, mouth hanging open, eyes shining with shock, relief, joy, affection.

"Bellamy?" she breathed, her eyes running over his face, his chest, his arms, down to his feet and back up again, as though unable to believe that he was really there. Then she threw her free arm around him and buried her face in his neck. " _Bellamy_ ," she breathed out, and he breathed in, the scent of her skin where her neck met her shoulder bringing the memory of the last time that they were this close rushing back to him.

* * *

The day that they found the bunker beneath the big white house was the happiest he had allowed himself to feel in years. Behind every door was a new gift—food stores, running water, wide mattresses, soft pillows. He and Clarke spent hours exploring the maze of hallways and rooms, checking and double-checking that it was safe, clean, and secure.

They radioed back to camp, telling Kane and Abby breathlessly about their incredible good fortune. They were just heading back to the rover, which was parked a few minutes' walk away, when thunder crashed in the distance and ominous dark clouds began rolling in.

"Back inside, quickly!" Bellamy said, ducking his head against a strong gust of wind. Tiny drops of water began hissing against the ground. They rushed for cover together and huddled just inside the house, staring through the tangled ivy in the broken windows at the sudden downpour of black rain.

"We'll have to wait it out," Clarke said, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "It looks like it will last a while."

With nothing better to do, they continued to explore the bunker, beginning to strategize about how to ration the food, assign the living quarters, and keep people sane and productive. Inside a block of what looked like office spaces, they stumbled upon a wood-paneled room with a long leather couch and a mahogany desk. A golden placard glinted on its surface:  _Madam President._

"Looks like this should be your office, princess," Bellamy chuckled, showing her the placard.

Clarke smiled and ran a hand over the smooth surface of the desk, but her eyes were distant and she was still shifting her weight uneasily back and forth. Her neck and shoulders looked tight with tension.

"It doesn't feel real, does it?" Bellamy asked, moving closer and resting his hand on the back of her shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin at the base of her neck.

"No," Clarke answered, "it doesn't. I keep expecting something terrible to happen. Some new disaster to keep us running."

"Yeah." Bellamy swallowed. "Something else to keep us apart." His voice came out low and hoarse. Clarke grew suddenly very still, staring at the desk, and Bellamy felt heat rise in his cheeks. He hadn't meant for his words to have such weight behind them, such obvious meaning. Or maybe he had.

She turned to look at him then, covering his hand on her shoulder with her own. Bellamy swallowed again and let himself look—just for a moment—at the smooth, pale skin where her neck met her shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the hard set of her chin grow suddenly softer, and he found his eyes drawn along the curve of her cheek to her lips.

"Bellamy," she whispered, her eyes locked on his face, and he realized suddenly that he had been staring,  _really_  staring, at her lips, and he was  _still_  staring and couldn't bring himself to stop. Heat curled in Bellamy's chest and spread across his neck. His breath was suddenly shallow and he felt slightly dizzy, as though he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

After the dropship landed on Earth carrying the first hundred, Bellamy had spent months denying and then actively suppressing the magnetic attraction that he felt to Clarke. And now they had been a team for so long, needing each other for support and back-up and safety, that he hadn't been able to bear the thought that he might ruin their partnership by involving something as fragile and volatile as emotion. But in this moment, with the promise of a safe future finally in their grasp, he decided to allow himself to feel what he had been bottling up for years and—the thought frightened him, thrilled him—to risk letting Clarke see him feeling it. Normally he tried to arrange his features, at least when he knew that Clarke was looking at him, into some semblance of a friendly-platonic expression. But he found it suddenly impossible to mask the raw need that was coiling through every muscle in his body.

So he allowed the hand that was on her shoulder to slide slowly down her arm and curl around her waist, and then he lifted his other hand to her jaw and leaned his forehead against hers, trying to control his breathing and his rapid pulse, but failing miserably. He knew that Clarke could see his chest heaving, and she could probably hear the thump of his heart as it hammered against his ribcage, and even though the part of him that had pictured this moment ( _once, twice, a thousand times_ ) had hoped that he might sweep her off of her feet with a confident and passionate kiss, he found that all he could manage was to stand there, vulnerable, running his thumb gently along her cheekbone and hoping that she wouldn't back away.

And she didn't. She stood right where she was, her eyes fluttering shut as his thumb moved down to graze her bottom lip. He realized that she was trembling, but he couldn't tell whether it was with exhaustion or nervous energy or ( _was he fooling himself_?) desire. They stood together, forehead to forehead, mouths inches apart but not touching, not yet, until Clarke whispered his name with such aching tenderness that he couldn't stop himself from pressing his lips to her forehead, and then her cheek, and then, finally ( _finally_ ), her lips.

Clarke gasped into his mouth and wove her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, and he groaned at the feel of her fingers on his scalp, the softness of her waist under his hands, and the knowledge that this was real, this was happening,  _she wanted him too_.

He wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss, pulling her flush against his body. He couldn't get enough of her—her smell, her taste, the feel of her moving against him, the sound of her shallow gasps. When he trailed kisses down her jaw and into the curve of her neck, she let out a soft moan that set his skin on fire. They shifted against each other, desperate for friction, and then Bellamy lifted Clarke onto the desk and she pulled him close with her legs around his hips until they were pressed together in the most intimate way possible.

Before he knew it, their shirts were discarded in a heap on the floor and she was pressing her bare chest against his. He realized that he was losing all grip on control, and pulled back slightly to catch his breath.

"Clarke, I— _god_ …" He lost his train of thought as her hands moved to the buckle of his belt.

"I want this, Bellamy," she said simply, fiercely, her fingers moving nimbly to the button of his jeans. "I want you."

They were being reckless and impulsive, and he knew it, but it just felt so goddamn wonderful—and, he thought to himself, they deserved this moment, this chance to act like irresponsible teenagers in a world that had forced them to grow up too fast, to become leaders, to bear other people's suffering.

Then Clarke removed the rest of her clothing and wrapped herself back around him and he lost all coherent thought. He spent the next hour in a daze of absolute bliss—of feeling her, tasting her, burying himself inside of her and moving slowly, deliberately, watching for every flutter of her eyelids and memorizing every movement of her hips, feeling the first frantic shaking wave of release wash over her and trying with all of his might to hold himself back as sweet, sinking pleasure rushed through him, spreading from where they were joined, where her hands grasped his lower back, where her mouth latched on to his neck—unable to think anything other than  _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_  and swearing to himself never to forget the achingly sweet way that she murmured  _Bell, Bell, Bell._

* * *

That had been the only chance they had, before responsibilities to their people and the rush of preparations and Clarke's desperate act of sacrifice got in the way. It had been five years, two weeks, and five days since he had touched her.

Now, Bellamy found himself fighting to make sense of this bustling village and the unravaged landscape. "How?" he asked hoarsely. "All of these people…?" Then he trailed off, too dazed to form complete sentences.

" _Praimfaya_ never came, Bellamy," she said. "At least, not here."

Bellamy's chest felt hollow. "I don't understand. Why didn't you—"

"I went to the house above the bunker every day," Clarke whispered. "For months. I pounded on the doors. The steel ones, the triple-reinforced layer, some sort of internal locking mechanism engaged when I closed them. I couldn't get past. I tried every channel on the radio, on the walkie, but I couldn't get through. I screamed my voice raw. No one ever heard me. No one opened the door."

Bellamy felt horror rising in his chest as he imagined how frustrating, how lonely it must have been for her. "How long…?"

Clarke's voice was ragged with emotion. "About six months. But then, I had to leave. I needed…medical attention."

"You were sick?" Bellamy asked, concern furrowing his brow. "Are you better? Do you still need medicine?"

To his surprise, Clarke laughed. "I'm fine. It was a temporary condition." She was smiling, but there were tears shining in her eyes. She pressed a kiss to the chubby cheek of the child in her arms.

Bellamy froze, looking back and forth between Clarke and the child. Gus gazed back at him with curious brown eyes, and Bellamy felt suddenly as though all of the air had been knocked from his lungs. "He's your son? Biologically, I mean?"

"Yes," Clarke answered.

"How—how old?"

"Four years. Three months."

Bellamy did some frantic calculations in his head. He noticed for the first time the way that the boy's thick and curly dark hair sprouted in a hundred different directions; the dusting of light freckles on his nose and cheeks; the small dimple in his chin.

His heart stuttered in his chest as he struggled to come to terms with everything that he had lost in the last five years, and the prospect of what he hadn't known he would gain. Tears spilled over onto his cheeks as he stared at little Gus, who smiled and reached out for Bellamy to hold him.

Clarke leaned forward so that Gus could transfer himself into Bellamy's arms, ruffling her son's hair affectionately.

"You see, Gus?" she said, and Bellamy had never seen her look so radiantly happy. "I told you he would find us. Your dad always keeps his promises."


	2. Rebirth

Clarke had never been more reluctant to see Bellamy go. She understood that it was necessary for him to return to the bunker and find the other members of Skaikru. He needed to help them process the difficult truth that they had spent five years isolated in an underground bunker to escape a death wave that never came. He needed to show them the way to the Trikru village where Clarke had found refuge, and to organize an official embassy to request a renewed alliance between Skaikru and Trikru. These were important and necessary measures, and Clarke understood that. But it didn't change the fact that every nerve in her body was thrumming with the need to be near him, to confirm that he was solid and real, to never allow him out of her sight again.

She had wanted to go with him, but the thought of how confusing and frightening it might be for Gus had made her pause. He was a shy child, so shy that she had been stunned by how comfortable he seemed in Bellamy's arms. Normally, Gus squirmed and fussed around unfamiliar people. He didn't even particularly like to be held. He liked to stand on his own and run free and get himself into mischief. He was, at heart, a solitary sort of child, and he had always preferred his own company to the noisy gangs of the village children. Gus certainly wouldn't take well to being suddenly surrounded by a crowd of strangers. It was best to keep him at home, in a familiar place, and to introduce him gradually to the family he had never met. She smiled slightly—what a big family he was going to have now.

Still, as she watched Bellamy disappear back into the woods, Clarke felt a familiar ache blooming in her chest. It was an ache that had been throbbing painfully every day for five years. She had long resigned herself to the persistent presence of this pain. It had settled into her ribcage for good, and she had believed that she would never be free of it. She hadn't  _wanted_  to be free of it—it meant that she remembered, that Bellamy had been real, that one day they could find each other again. But the pain had a particularly hard edge whenever she thought about those impenetrable steel doors, the ones she had kicked and scratched and rammed and pried for days and weeks and months. What if they couldn't be opened from the inside either? What if she was doomed to live the rest of her life apart from her family, separated by just a few layers of doors that had been sealed against an imaginary threat?

That was the constant ache that accompanied her every moment of every day. That is, until Bellamy emerged unexpectedly from the forest, balancing their child on his hip, and every piece of her had blossomed with a blinding, overwhelming thrill of joy. She had always seen a strong resemblance between Gus and his father. It was clear that he had inherited Bellamy's unruly hair and his deep brown eyes. But it wasn't until she saw them together for the first time that she realized just how similar they looked: he was like a miniature version of Bellamy, a softer version, with chubby cheeks and curious eyes and a wide smile that crinkled his eyes and dimpled his chin.

At her side, Gus tugged at Clarke's pant leg and looked at her through sleepy eyes. "Nap time," Clarke said, guiding him back toward their hut with one hand on his back. Gus shook his head in protest—he preferred to be awake and exploring the world—even as his eyes were sliding slowly closed. She settled him into a pile of fur blankets and watched him slip into sleep, her mind on the great crowd of friends and family that would soon be bursting their way into his small world.

* * *

For the first three months after the bunker doors were sealed, Clarke experienced every permutation of loneliness. First, there was the chaotic and terrifying knowledge that if she did manage to survive, she would have to do it completely alone. Then, when the death wave halted its progress on the horizon and dissipated completely, there was the complete isolation of having no one to discuss her confusion with.

She was desperate to make contact with the bunker, but with every passing day it became clearer that this would be impossible. That was the most terrifying loneliness of all. For all she knew, everyone on the surface was dead, and everyone alive was in the bunker. She was the last woman on earth, and she was completely and utterly alone.

It had been a strange and exhilarating moment when she had come to the sudden and terrifying realization that she wasn't alone at all. She had been miserably ill for weeks, especially in the mornings, but had attributed it to the stress of her situation and the possibility of mild radiation sickness. She hadn't menstruated in months, but that, too, was a sign of extreme stress and nutrient deprivation. She attributed her persistent ravenous hunger to the fact that she wasn't finding enough food to sustain herself.

It was pickles that did it, in the end. Clarke had always despised pickles. They tasted like bile and stomach acid to her, and she often resolved inwardly, whenever she caught a whiff of their vile smell, that she would rather die than eat a single pickle.

Then, one morning, after a particularly rough bout of dry heaving, she had been overwhelmed by a sudden and powerful craving for pickles. She wanted nothing more than to feel the acidic sting of pickle juice burning the back of her throat. Her mouth watered at the mere thought and her stomach rumbled. She  _needed_  to eat a pickle—no, not just one pickle, an entire jar of pickles, and…and she wanted something to balance out the acid, something heavy, something...earthy.

Then Clarke leaned heavily against the trunk of the nearest tree and began to sob, because she was fantasizing about pickles dipped in dirt and because she had never been more scared or lonely or confused and because she was pregnant with Bellamy Blake's child.

* * *

Abby arrived in the village first. Clarke could hear her mother's voice shouting her name in the distance. She shot to her feet and raced out of the door and collided with Abby in the middle of the market square in a ragged, tearful, breathless hug.

The rest of them trickled in behind, some whooping with joy at the sight of Clarke (Monty, Jasper), others crushing her in a tight embrace (Kane, Raven, Harper), others nodding at her but keeping distant, looking closed off (Octavia). She wondered at the apparent change in Jasper, who had been having such difficulty with the losses he had suffered. He seemed joyful, almost buoyant now—at least on the surface. She worried about the apparent absence of change in Octavia, who looked as angry and isolated as she had been five years before. Bellamy came in the rear, herding the smallest Skaikru children. Some of them looked impossibly frightened. Clarke realized, with a jolt of discomfort, that the smallest of them probably couldn't remember the surface at all.

Clarke drew Abby gently aside. "I need you to meet someone, Mom," she whispered. Abby nodded and looked around, as though to invite the others with them. "No, just you," Clarke said quickly. "For now."

Abby followed Clarke curiously into her hut, blinking to adjust her eyes to the dim lighting. Clarke could only imagine what sort of introduction her mother was expecting. Perhaps Clarke would introduce her to a new friend? A lover? Certainly not the tiny figure curled in a pile of furs in the corner, his little chest rising and falling as he slept. Abby's eyes locked immediately on Gus, and she reached out a hand to grip her daughter's arm. "Is that—is he…?"

"This is Gus, Mom."

There was a slight rustling from the corner and a light yawn. Gus lifted his head and looked at Clarke. "It's all right," Clarke murmured. "Go back to sleep."

"Gus?" Abby repeated faintly.

"After Augustus," Clarke said.

Abby turned around to stare at Clarke. "The Emperor? You never liked Roman history."

Clarke nodded, smiling. "I know."

Abby stared at Gus for a full minute, taking him in. Then, finally: "He looks so much like his father."

* * *

Later that afternoon, after the noisiness of the reunion had died down and diplomatic business had been settled, Clarke caught Bellamy's eye across the meeting hall. He smiled at her, one of those rare, heart-stopping smiles that crinkled his eyes and lit up his whole face. He looked exhausted, but exhilarated. He cocked his head, asking silently if she wanted to go talk somewhere else.

Clarke led him out the door and started heading for the treeline, walking quickly because her mind was racing. There were so many things that they needed to talk about. She didn't know anything about what he had been through in the past five years. And he hadn't known until today that he had a child with her. For all she knew, he had paired off with someone while they were in the bunker. Bellamy certainly deserved the sort of happiness and stability that a nice, normal Skaikru girl could offer him. She reached a suitable clearing in the woods, braced herself to hear that Bellamy had moved on in her absence, and turned around to face him.

Bellamy hesitated. Maybe he saw the hard glint in her eye. "I—I want to talk about Gus," he said finally.

Clarke nodded. "What about him?"

Bellamy scratched the back of his neck, looking uncertain. "I want to be a part of his life, Clarke."

"Of course. He's as much your son as he is mine." Clarke stared at the ground. She thought she could sense a "but" coming from Bellamy and the possibilities scared her ( _but I'm not ready to be a father; but I've moved on and fallen in love with someone else; but I never wanted children_ ).

"The thing is," said Bellamy, "I've missed so much of his life. He doesn't know me. And I…I just don't want to force my way in. You've built a life together here, with him. And, I don't know, maybe…" he trailed off, looking miserable.

Clarke waited patiently for him to finish his thought.

Bellamy sighed. "Maybe, you've moved on with someone else. And, I mean, you'd be completely within your rights. Maybe Gus already has another parent figure in his life. I don't want…I don't want to confuse him. Or get in the way of, you know…anything."

It was the least coherent train of words that Clarke had ever heard emerge from Bellamy's mouth. It was odd to see him so vulnerable, so flustered.

"There's nothing to get in the way of," Clarke said. "It's just me and Gus. It has always been just me and Gus." She heard her voice break and was surprised to find that she was crying.

Bellamy stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. "I'm so sorry that you had to do this alone, Clarke."

She buried her face in his neck and returned his embrace. "I'm not alone anymore."

* * *

They returned to the central square to find Jasper and Monty goofing around with a group of Grounder kids, playing some sort of chasing game.

Jasper caught sight of them and lit up. "Hey, Bellamy!" he shouted. "Come here, we gotta show you something!"

Bellamy and Clarke drew closer to the shrieking gaggle of children. A small figure wrapped in fur careened around the edge of the group, giggling, evading Jasper's snatching hands.

"Look at this little guy, Bellamy," Jasper laughed, finally snagging Gus by the edge of his coat and drawing him towards Bellamy. "Dude, he looks  _exactly_ like you! Isn't that crazy? You haven't been running around having affairs with Grounder women all this time, have you?"

Monty jogged up beside Jasper. "Did you show him?" he asked breathlessly. "You've got a little mini-you running around, Bellamy! We call him Baby Bell."

At that moment, Gus broke free from Jasper's grasp and stumbled over toward Clarke. "Nomon!" he said, grabbing her hand and hiding shyly behind her legs. Even Bellamy recognized that word.  _Mother_.

Bellamy turned to look at Clarke, swallowing heavily. "That's the first word I've ever heard him say."

Clarke nodded. "He's a quiet kid. And he doesn't have much practice speaking English."

Gus smiled up at Bellamy from behind Clarke with wide, trusting eyes, and then reached up his arms. Bellamy swung Gus onto his hip. Clarke marveled at the way Gus fit into the crook of Bellamy's arms, the way his small hands wrapped around Bellamy's shoulders, the way his head dropped easily to rest on Bellamy's neck. With one hand, Bellamy smoothed down the wild curls on Gus' forehead.

Monty and Jasper, meanwhile, were staring open-mouthed at the three of them. Their gazes shifted rapidly from Gus, to Bellamy, to Clarke, and back to Bellamy, their eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

"Dude," Jasper whispered, turning slowly to look at Monty.

"Dude," Monty agreed, meeting Jasper's gaze.

A shared look of manic happiness spread slowly across their faces.

"No fucking way," they whispered reverently, and high-fived themselves in unison.


	3. Renewal

Bellamy wasn't sure how to tell Octavia about Gus. The knowledge that Clarke and Bellamy had a son seemed to be spreading rapidly, especially now that Monty and Jasper knew, but Octavia had been keeping mostly to herself since their arrival in the Trikru village. Bellamy wanted to be the one to tell her, but he wasn't sure how to go about letting his sister know that she had a five-year-old nephew.

As it turned out, he didn't need to tell her at all. Octavia had ducked into Clarke's hut in the late afternoon, taken a single glance at the small boy seated on Bellamy's lap, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh my god…" she whispered through her fingers, looking rapidly between Clarke and Bellamy. "Oh my  _god_! Is that—? Is he—?" There was a smile so wide spreading on her cheeks that it was almost painful for Bellamy to see it. It had been years since he had seen such genuine joy in her features.

Gus looked at Octavia curiously and said something in Trigedasleng. Octavia answered immediately, kneeling down so her face was level with his. Gus giggled and said something else, and suddenly they were having a rapid, animated conversation. Bellamy watched helplessly, unable to understand. Then Gus hopped down off of his lap and grabbed Octavia's hand, leading her away from the table.

Bellamy looked around at Clarke, confused. "He's showing her his toys," laughed Clarke.

Bellamy felt a pang of sadness. He looked intently at Clarke. "I need to learn Trigedasleng."

"You don't  _need_ to," said Clarke. "He understands English perfectly well."

"Okay," said Bellamy. "But I want to learn. I want to be able to understand him. I don't want to miss anything."

"In that case," replied Clarke, "the first word you should know is  _nontu_."

" _Nontu_ ," repeated Bellamy, the shape of the word unfamiliar in his mouth. "What does that mean?"

Clarke smiled. "Father."

* * *

Bellamy had suffered through a full year of Octavia's hatred after the bunker was sealed. She refused to speak to him, wouldn't even make eye contact, turned abruptly around and walked away as soon as he entered a room. It was exhausting for him, seeing this blank wall that was once his sister, trying to express to her his regret, his shame, his love, and getting only stony silence in return.

He left Octavia to herself for the better part of a year, forcing himself to keep his distance. She seemed healthy enough from afar—she was eating and exercising, socializing with some of the other delinquents (Jasper and Monty, mostly—they seemed to be the only people who could ever make her smile), working shifts in the medical ward assisting Abby.

But sometimes, when no one was paying attention, or when Octavia thought she was alone, Bellamy could see the light drain out of her eyes. In those moments, she looked like an empty shell of herself. He once observed her staring blankly at the wall for a full hour until Kane wandered into the room and she plastered a big, fake smile on her face. The next day in the mess hall, as Bellamy checked surreptitiously that Octavia was serving herself enough food, he noticed that her fingernails were short and ragged, bloody around the edges as though she had been tearing viciously at them.

He never fully understood the depth of Octavia's anguish until their first Unity Day in the bunker. There was a noisy celebration going on in the main hall, but Bellamy didn't feel much like celebrating. Instead he wandered aimlessly through the empty halls, until he stumbled upon Octavia in the weapons training room. She was beating her fists violently against a punching bag, pummeling with impossible speed, looking exhausted and raw and broken.

"Octavia," he said quietly. "You're going to hurt yourself."

She froze, but didn't turn around. She just stood there, fists raised, chest heaving. "So what?" she said finally, landing two hard punches and a kick that sent the bag swinging.

"It hurts me to see you in pain, O," Bellamy answered.

"Not my problem," Octavia snapped in reply. She turned around to glare at him, her jaw clenched, a fierce anger brewing behind her eyes (part of Bellamy was glad; at least she was feeling  _something_ , and not that horrible blankness that turned her eyes into cold, empty marbles). But then their gazes met—and held—for the first time in months, and Octavia's face suddenly crumpled. Her expression reminded Bellamy of when she had been a very small child trying desperately not to cry after a skinned knee, or a spilled drink, or a bitter disappointment.

But her emotions weren't childish, Bellamy reminded himself. She had suffered a real, violent loss. She was grieving.

"I'll let you hate me, O," Bellamy said, stepping closer and cradling her clenched fists in his hands. She winced and looked away, but didn't remove them. Her fingers were bruised and bloody. "You can hate me forever, but you've got to stop this."

Silent tears dropped onto Octavia's cheeks. She stared at her hands, at the ragged flesh and the blood pooling on her knuckles. "It feels best to feel nothing," she said flatly. "And second best to feel agony."

"I know it feels like you'll never heal," Bellamy said. "But that's no reason to keep opening new wounds. You've got to keep going, keep living. Keep loving. It's what he would have wanted."

Octavia stared at him for a few tense seconds. "I think you need to take your own advice, Bellamy."

"I—what?"

"You haven't touched a single woman in the entire year that we've been stuck down here. You hardly even look at them."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You want me to move on, start  _loving_ again? You need to admit to yourself that she's gone forever."

Bellamy took a step backwards. "She isn't."

"She's  _dead_ ," Octavia spat, venom creeping into her voice. "She burned up in the radiation wave just like every other person on the surface of this shithole planet."

"Octavia, stop."

"You're never going to see her again, never going to touch her again, never going to hear her voice…"

"Please…"

"…because you know what she is now? A corpse. You'll open up the doors in a few years and trip over her rotting carcass—"

"SHUT UP!" Bellamy roared.

Octavia crossed her arms over her chest. "Like I said." Her smile was smug, but she looked shaken. "Take your own advice."

* * *

After their fight in the weapons training room, Octavia stopped avoiding Bellamy. She didn't seek out his company, but she no longer left the rooms that he entered or refused to acknowledge his presence. She started looking him in the eye, too, and their relationship crept slowly, slowly back toward what it once had been. There were no open declarations of forgiveness or redemption or love, but there were small moments where Octavia briefly touched his shoulder, or they shared a quiet smile, or she rolled her eyes at him when Kane told corny jokes at dinner.

Octavia was the only one who ever noticed that Bellamy disappeared every year on Clarke's birthday. He wasn't sure if she knew where he went (the office with the mahogany desk and the  _Madam President_  placard) or what he did (drink an entire jug of moonshine and let himself feel the pain and loss and sorrow that he kept bottled up for most of the year), but he knew that she noticed his absence. She always knocked quietly on his door the next morning with a hot breakfast and some tea to help his hangover.  _I'm here if you need me_ , was her unspoken message. Every year he accepted her offerings with a silent nod.  _I'm okay on my own_.

That was the pattern that they established until the fourth year, the morning after what would have been Clarke's twenty-second birthday, when Bellamy had whispered gruffly, just as Octavia was backing out the door, "I'm terrified that she's dead."

Octavia sat down on the bed next to him and helped herself to a bite of his toast. "Do you want a comforting lie, or an honest opinion?"

Bellamy was silent.

"She probably is dead, Bellamy." Octavia said it gently, but cringed internally at the memory of the last time they had had this conversation—at the gruesome image she had conjured up to torment him.

"I can't accept that," said Bellamy. He wiped away a tear from his cheek quickly, angrily.

"You loved her," said Octavia. It wasn't a question.

Bellamy nodded, ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath. "I still do."

"Then don't give up. If there is even the slightest shred of a possibility that she is alive, then you don't give up. You fight, you survive, and when the time comes, you find her."

* * *

Something important changed in Octavia from the moment that she met Gus. She was still a warrior, still tough, still dangerous, but her demeanor shifted entirely when Gus was around. Not that she became any less of a soldier, but that constant wariness, the suspicion, the guarded way that she looked at other people, all of that seemed to soften, maybe even disappear, around Gus.

"You're a natural," Bellamy tried to tell Octavia, as Gus clambered into her lap and started playing with her hair.

Octavia scoffed. "Hardly. I don't even like kids, really. But this one is a Blake. He's special."

Bellamy looked down at Gus, who was humming a quiet little song to himself. "I'm afraid I'll screw it up."

"What do you mean?" Octavia asked, setting Gus gently on the ground at her feet.

Bellamy kept his eyes on Gus. "I don't know anything about being a father."

" _What_?" Octavia said, harshly, and Bellamy looked up in surprise. She looked furious. "How can you say that?"

Bellamy blinked. "I've never—"

"You raised  _me_ , Bell. By yourself. I was isolated and scared and you made me feel safe and loved. Don't you dare say that you don't know what you're doing."

Bellamy found himself blinking back tears. "I—I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just stop forgetting what you mean to other people." Octavia stood up and started gathering her things. "Besides," she added over her shoulder, "you've got Clarke. If you screw up, she'll fix it."

* * *

Bellamy had difficulty sleeping that night. Trikru had agreed to set aside a few spaces for temporary sleeping quarters until Skaikru could build new huts of their own, so Bellamy was on a cot in the meeting hall with about thirty other people. After an hour of trying to tune out Jasper's heavy snores, he decided to go for a walk around the village. He saw that there was light in Clarke's window, and he headed across the square to knock gently on her door before he could think better of it.

"Come in," Clarke called. Bellamy found her standing at her desk, leaning over a map that was spread across it and squinting in the dim glow of the fireplace. He shut the door softly behind him and watched her trace her finger along the page, feeling a slight ache in his chest at the familiarity of the scene. How many hours had they spent together, staring at maps just like this one, discussing strategic positions and enemy camps and scouting parties?

"What are you looking for?" Bellamy asked, peering at the map over her shoulder.

"I'm not sure," Clarke admitted. "It's just an old habit, I guess."

"Where's Gus?"

"With Abby and Kane. They wanted to take him star-gazing."

Bellamy smiled. "I bet he'll like that."

"He loves the constellations," said Clarke. She angled her face toward him but didn't quite meet his eye. "They're…uh…keeping him for the night. They even set up a little bed for him. Said I deserved a night off."

"Oh," said Bellamy softly, feeling heat rise in his cheeks at the sudden realization that they were completely alone. Clarke turned back to the map and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, its color a pale, flickering gold in the light of the fire. Bellamy swallowed and drew a bit closer. Clarke started to move to the right, maybe to give Bellamy a better view of the map. He stilled her, gently, with his right hand on her waist.

Clarke sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. Bellamy moved a bit closer, until his chest grazed her upper back and her hair tickled his nose, and ran his thumb along the smooth skin just beneath the hem of her shirt. Clarke leaned against him, tilting her neck slightly to the side and gripping the edge of her desk with pale fingers. After a few seconds of internal debate, Bellamy pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck, just a bare brush of his lips, and when she sighed in response he curled one arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She gasped as his kisses trailed up her neck, as she felt his hands slide more boldly along her skin. Bellamy's breath hitched when she pressed herself fully against him, feeling jolts of electricity spark through his veins, originating in every place where her body touched his. They moved against each other, slowly, deliberately, and Bellamy's thoughts were clouded with desire.

"Bellamy," Clarke gasped when his left hand grazed her chest. She grabbed his other hand, which had been gripping the outer edge of her thigh, and moved it to the button of her jeans.

"Please," she whispered, her voice shaky, and let out a low, breathy moan as he undid the button and followed the zipper with his fingers. The next ten minutes were a symphony of quiet gasps and groans from Clarke as Bellamy touched her, watching her hands curl and uncurl on the table in front of them, struggling and failing to contain his own moans every time she ground her hips backwards against his. He trailed hot kisses along her neck and allowed his free hand to roam along her thigh, across her stomach, up to her chest. She gasped his name as waves of pleasure pulsed through her.

As she trembled and groaned in his arms, her left hand trailed from his knee to his inner thigh, and moved upward to press against him through his jeans. Bellamy let out a low gasp and felt his vision go blurry around the edges. Only once before in his life had he felt such a hungry and powerful need for someone, and that had been five years before, pressed up against a different desk. He suddenly needed desperately to kiss her.

Clarke seemed to read his mind, shifting in his arms until their lips met, and then she was facing him and the kiss deepened and he was cradling her jaw with his right hand and tangling his other hand into the hair at the nape of her neck. He groaned when he felt her hands fumbling with his belt, and he buried his face in her neck and breathed out her name.

The door banged open and they froze, Clarke's hands on the zipper of Bellamy's jeans and his lips in the hollow of her throat.

"Clarke, we need—shit! Oh, shit, oh, my god, I'm sorry, I should have knocked…" stuttered Monty, covering his eyes with both hands and turning around. "It's just, Harper's horse threw her and we think she's got a broken arm. Abby needs your help to set the bone." The back of Monty's ears burned bright red. "Shit," he added once more, for good measure.

Clarke breathed out slowly against Bellamy's chest, then swiftly did up the button of her jeans. "Of course," she said, suddenly businesslike. "Let's go."

"Great! Cool! Bye!" Monty practically sprinted away, sputtering something under his breath about  _things you can't unsee._

Clarke turned in the doorway. "It's pretty late," she said to Bellamy. "You're welcome to stay the night. Here, I mean. If you want. I should be back soon."

"Uh…yeah, okay. I think I will," said Bellamy.

An hour later, Clarke returned to find Bellamy sprawled across the bed, snoring quietly. She kicked off her shoes and dropped onto the bed beside him, curling against his side, and fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Clarke and Bellamy spent a few happy hours sitting in the dappled sunlight just outside the meeting hall. They were meant to be discussing the inventory of the armory, but their conversation quickly turned to Gus. Bellamy was impatient to learn everything about him, and he found himself bombarding Clarke with a flood of questions. They talked about Gus' first words, his first steps, his first tantrum, his favorite things (food: rabbit, color: green, game: hide-and-seek). Bellamy watched with amusement as Clarke reenacted the first time Gus had ever seen a butterfly (he had toddled after it until it landed on his nose; then he had burst into frightened tears). He felt an emotion brimming in his chest that he couldn't quite place: it was something like happiness, and something like longing, and something like grief.

Then Octavia burst out of the woods, sprinting straight for them, with Jasper and Monty panting behind her. "Grab your weapons!" she shouted, hurtling past Clarke and Bellamy toward the stables.

"O, what's going on?" Bellamy shouted, drawing his gun from its holster and aiming it for the forest. He turned to Clarke, and a terrifying thought entered his mind. "Where's Gus?"

"With my mom," Clarke answered. "He's okay."

"You're sure?"

"I saw them pass by thirty minutes ago."

Bellamy sagged with relief. Jasper and Monty finally caught up, both too winded to speak. They looked panicked.

"What is it? What happened?" Clarke demanded.

"Azgeda," Jasper wheezed. He had a nasty bruise blossoming on the side of his temple.

"Surprised us," Monty added, leaning over with his hands on his knees. His cheek was bleeding. "We…we have to…

Octavia reappeared, leading Helios by the bridle. "Follow me with ten guards, fully armed," she said to Bellamy. "And the best tracker in the village," she added to Clarke. "They're on horseback. I'm going ahead." Then she swung onto Helios' back and galloped for the treeline, looking murderous.

Bellamy turned to Monty and Jasper. "What did they do? Why is she going after them?"

Monty had finally caught his breath, but couldn't seem to find the right words. "We didn't… we couldn't…" He ran one hand through his hair and took a ragged breath. "We were playing hide-and-seek with him. It's his favorite game."

"We didn't know," Jasper added desperately. "We thought—we thought it was safe…"

"No." Bellamy could hear his voice shaking. "No, he's with Abby right now."

Clarke grabbed Bellamy then, her fingers digging into his forearm, and he could feel her trembling against him. Abby had emerged from behind a nearby hut to see what all the commotion was about. She was alone.

"They took him," Monty whispered, looking stricken. "They took Gus."


	4. Retrieval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter, but some of you seemed really anxious to know what happens next! Enjoy :)

Gus was cold and hungry. He shivered in the corner of a damp, dark cell, listening to the low voices of rough, strange men. He was scared, but determined not to show it. His  _nomon_ had taught him to be strong and brave. He would make her proud.

One of the strange men tossed something through the bars that landed in the dirt at Gus' feet. It was a crust of hard, stale bread.

"Eat up, kid," the man grunted in Trigedasleng.

Gus crossed his arms. "No."

The man laughed. "No? Not good enough for the Skaikru prince?"

Gus picked up the bread and hurled it back through the bars. It hit the man's shoulder with a dull  _thunk_. "You are a bad man!" shouted Gus.

"Shut him up!" snapped a woman's voice from around the corner. "Someone will hear!"

"Yes, Echo," the man replied. He crouched down so his face was level with Gus. "Be quiet, you little brat," he hissed, baring yellow teeth.

Gus stared the man down, his little hands curling into fists, defiance etched across his face. "My  _nomon_ will find me," he insisted.

The woman called Echo appeared suddenly in front of his cell, black and white war paint slathered across her eyes, a bitter smile creasing her lips. "That's exactly what we're hoping for, little prince," she snarled.

* * *

After two hours of hard riding through the forest, following the broken branches and trodden underbrush that marked the trail of the riders they were pursuing, Clarke and Bellamy drew their horses up and signaled for their team to stop. They had emerged from a thickly wooded area onto a cleared path framed by two high gates.

"Azgeda," said Clarke, scoping out the wall that surrounded the gates and the tall structures visible on the other side. "I had no idea they had a settlement so close to us."

They dismounted and tied up their horses, leaving two guards behind to keep watch, and crept closer to the gates under the cover of the trees. Bellamy moved rapidly, barely able to keep himself from breaking into a sprint. Clarke caught up to him and put a hand on his arm, stopping him in the process of loading ammunition into his gun.

"We can't go in guns blazing," she said. "We don't want to start a war."

"They've already started the war!" Bellamy said. "They took Gus!"

"I know," said Clarke firmly. "And I'm absolutely terrified. But this is a delicate diplomatic situation."

"I don't see what diplomacy has to do with it. We go in, we get Gus back, we kill anyone who gets in our way."

"And then what?" asked Clarke. "Then Azgeda retaliates, and they raid our village, and everyone is in danger."

"What do you propose we do?" said Bellamy, running a shaking hand through his hair.

Clarke sighed. "We go in, just the two of us, hoping that Roan is still in charge, and that he didn't have anything to do with this."

They had been moving steadily closer to the gates as they talked. Bellamy suddenly put his hand in the air, motioning for the other guards to halt their progress. "Something's off," he said, peering at the gates.

There were two crumpled forms lying at the base of the wall. As they drew nearer, it became clear that they were the bodies of two Azgeda warriors, throats slit, blood pooling around their shoulders.

Bellamy cursed. "Octavia," he said. "Guess she missed the diplomacy memo."

* * *

Roan stared at the two Skaikru leaders. It had been five years since he had seen either of them, but this scene was hardly unfamiliar to him: the two of them standing before his throne, shoulder to shoulder, staring him down. Clarke and Bellamy had a silent way of communicating with each other, through a series of glances and nods and small hand movements, that had always made him feel like an outsider even when he had been a part of their team. And he certainly wasn't a part of their team anymore. Not after the dirty trick of the  _praimfaya_  lie.

"You claim that a group of my people has taken one of your own?" said Roan slowly, steepling his fingers and resting them against his chin.

"Yes," said Clarke, her mouth set in a stubborn line. "A small child." Roan thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice.

"What evidence do you have for this accusation?" asked Echo, who was standing to Roan's right, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

"Witnesses," said Bellamy. "Three of them."

"And you followed the trail of these so-called kidnappers here, to my city?" said Roan.

"We're not accusing you of anything," said Clarke. "We only ask that you search your city for our—the missing boy."

"This boy is important to you, then?" said Echo with a grim smile. Roan saw Clarke and Bellamy share a quick, tense glance.

"He is Skaikru. All of our people are important to us," answered Clarke.

There was a long silence. "I know nothing of this boy," said Roan finally. "Azgeda has no dealings with Skaikru, or with your Trikru village."

"Please," said Clarke, and now her voice was definitely wavering. "The trail was clear. It led—"

A great shout sounded from the direction of the gate. Roan saw Clarke and Bellamy tense, reaching instinctively for the weapons that had been taken away from them before they were permitted to approach him.

One of his attendants burst into the hall. "My King. Two of our guards have been slain at their posts."

Roan stood up, drawing his sword. "This was a ruse," he said angrily, glaring at Clarke and Bellamy. "I'm tired of Skaikru lies. You brought needless terror to my people once, and now you have brought violence to my gates."

"Put them in chains," commanded Echo, and three Azgeda warriors descended on Clarke and Bellamy.

"What do we do?" whispered Bellamy to Clarke as they backed away from the advancing guards. "Do we fight?"

"Can't see much other choice," said Clarke.

Then the three warriors fell to the ground, one after the other, each with a surprised grunt. Throwing knives protruded from each of their backs. Clarke let out a choked noise, something between a gasp and a sob. Bellamy followed her gaze across the hall and spotted Octavia, spattered with blood, balancing a frightened-looking but otherwise uninjured Gus on her hip.

Echo had started to draw her sword, but Octavia already had her own leveled at Echo's throat. "Weapons on the ground," she said fiercely. "You too," she added to Roan, "or I slit her throat."

Echo threw her sword on the ground, looking murderous, and Octavia kicked it away. Behind her, Roan sank back down onto his throne, bemused. He allowed his sword to slide to the ground. Bellamy moved quickly to bind the king's hands.

"The child was here?" Roan asked, shooting a piercing look at Echo.

"Locked in a cell," spat Octavia.

"I knew nothing of this, my king," said Echo, then grunted when Octavia elbowed her hard in the ribs.

Roan stared at Clarke, Bellamy, and Octavia, searching their eyes for any hints of deceit. "You have killed five of my people," he said finally.

"Seven," corrected Octavia. Roan gave an exasperated sigh.

"One of our own was taken hostage," Octavia snapped.

"The lives of seven men, in exchange for the safety of a single child?" Roan countered.

Gus gave a quiet sniffle from Octavia's side. " _Nomon_ ," he whispered, reaching for his mother. Clarke moved swiftly across the room and gathered him into her arms, trying to hold back the great sobs of relief that were welling in her chest. "You're okay, you're okay," she murmured into his hair.

A sudden, shocked understanding registered in Roan's eyes. "The child is yours?" he said to Clarke, his eyebrows raised. He looked more closely at Gus, and his eyebrows raised even higher. He let out a helpless bark of laughter. "The child is  _yours_ ," he repeated, though this time he was looking at Bellamy.

Bellamy swallowed. He and Clarke had agreed not to reveal Gus' identity if they could help it. It seemed useless to deny it now, though, with Gus wrapped in Clarke's arms, staring out at Roan with hair and eyes and freckles that were unmistakably inherited from Bellamy.

"This was an act of war," said Octavia. "We merely responded in kind."

"Then it's war you shall have," hissed Echo, and Octavia gave her a hard kick to the back of the knees so that Echo fell heavily to the ground.

"Please, Roan," interjected Clarke, "we were friends once. We believe that you had nothing to do with this. We can try to come to a diplomatic solution."

Roan shook his head. "Would you ask me to let go of the deaths of my people so lightly? We have not forgotten the lie that you sold us about  _praimfaya_. There is no friendship between Skaikru and Azgeda."

"What do you suggest we do, then?" said Clarke.

Roan sighed, his expression a strange combination of reluctant, irritated, and amused. "I suggest you run."


	5. Retreat

Bellamy clasped Gus tightly against his chest as they galloped through the woods, his mind racing through solutions to stop the impending war, all of them desperate, foolish, impossible. Octavia had killed seven of Roan's people—there was no diplomatic solution to resolve those deaths. Blood must have blood.

He couldn't fault Octavia for the violence, not when Gus was here in his arms, safe, alive, breathing. But he also couldn't wrap his head around  _why_  Echo would have kidnapped Gus—and he had suspected it was Echo from the moment she appeared at Roan's side, sneering at them and demanding war. His suspicions had only been confirmed when, after they fled through the gates of Azgeda, Clarke had paused at the treeline for a brief moment to ask through panting breaths, "Who was it, Gus? Who took you?"

Gus buried his face in Clarke's neck and whispered something in Trigedasleng. Clarke looked at Bellamy, confusion and anger in her eyes. "The lady with the painted face," she translated.

"Echo," Octavia spat, swinging onto Helios' back.

"Why would she do it?" Bellamy demanded. "Why Gus?"

Clarke met Bellamy's gaze, and he thought he saw a spark of understanding in her eyes, but she didn't answer.

They rode hard, pushing their horses to exhaustion. As they raced to warn the Trikru villagers of the coming attack, Bellamy fought down his horror at the old, familiar pattern—innocent Trikru people suffering at the hands of Azgeda, paying for Skaikru's mistakes.

* * *

Roan rubbed at his wrists, staring at the shallow welts where Bellamy's tight knots had dug into his skin. His city was buzzing with activity as troops of warriors rushed to and fro, gathering armor and weapons in preparation for war.

"Why did you take the child?" he asked Echo, who was being treated by a healer. Octavia had cracked one of her ribs and dislocated her left knee, which was swollen and discolored.

She winced in pain as the healer tightened the bandage around her ribs. "As I said, I know nothing—"

"You have started a war, Echo, without the knowledge or consent of your king. Do not lie to me." Roan fixed her with an unsmiling stare.

Echo met his gaze without blinking. "The boy is a threat."

Roan gave a humorless laugh. "The boy is a child."

Echo shook her head. "You do not understand."

"Then explain it to me," replied Roan, with growing frustration. "Why do you insist on meddling behind the scenes? I am no puppet king, and you would do well to remember that you are merely a guard. Not a puppeteer."

And so Echo explained. Roan sat back in his throne, absorbing the new information with a look of studied patience. But his heart was beginning to hammer as he struggled to wrap his mind around what Echo was telling him.

"You are certain?" he said, finally. "You bore witness to this yourself?"

"Yes," answered Echo. "With my own eyes."

Roan frowned, searching for an explanation, then for a solution, unable to locate either one. He stood from his throne, retrieved his sword, and waited as two attendants hefted his fur cloak onto his shoulders. He allowed himself a few brief moments to mourn the alliance that he had once had with Clarke, something that he might almost have called a friendship. But that was impossible, now. There was only one path to protect his people, only one way to safeguard his throne.

He sighed heavily, then squared his shoulders and turned to Echo. "The boy must die."

* * *

 

The village was in chaos. Trikru people ran back and forth, some carrying weapons, others food and supplies, others frightened children. Clarke and Bellamy had persuaded some of them to evacuate, but most of them had stubbornly refused and instead commenced making preparations for war.

"We do not bow to Azgeda," Indra had insisted. "Let them come."

Skaikru was in similar disarray. Families with small children were already preparing to make their way back to the bunker, where they could shut themselves inside and hopefully withstand any external attack. But most of their people, Octavia the most vocal among them, refused to go back underground.

"We can scatter like cockroaches or we can show Azgeda our strength," she had insisted. "We run, they never stop chasing us. We fight, they know we're still a dangerous enemy."

"We have guns," Monty added. "Lots of ammunition."

"Is there no chance of peace?" asked Abby desperately. She had been sitting quietly in a corner, holding Gus on her lap. From the look on her face, Clarke knew Abby blamed herself for Gus' kidnapping.

Clarke frowned. "It's not impossible. We may be able to persuade Roan to change his mind. But we still have to be ready for an attack."

"Okay," said Kane. "Those who need safety will retreat to the bunker. Those who wish to remain will prepare to fight."

As the meeting scattered, Abby pulled Clarke aside. "I need to talk to you," she said in a low voice. She set Gus on the ground. He wandered over to Bellamy, who picked him up and carried him outside.

"It's not your fault, Mom," Clarke began, but Abby shook her head.

"This is about something else." Kane appeared at Abby's shoulder and rested a hand on her lower back. "I have to go to the bunker, Clarke," Abby said, looking pained. "I'll take Gus with me."

Clarke frowned. "We need you here. There will be injuries."

Abby looked down. "I would never run from a fight, Clarke, you know that. But…I can't stay this time."

Clarke stared at her mom, then at Kane. "You agree?" she asked Kane. He nodded, his brow creased with a particular brand of worry that Clarke thought she had seen somewhere before. On Bellamy, perhaps. Recently.

Then it clicked. She glanced down, saw where Abby's hands were resting, saw the slight bulge at her waistline.

"You're pregnant?" Clarke gasped. Abby nodded, smiling despite herself, and Clarke saw that Kane was fighting a smile, though the furrow of worry remained. It was the look of a man who had just found out that he was going to be a father. Equal parts joy and worry, anticipation and terror. 

Clarke clasped Abby in a tight hug. "I can't believe it. That's wonderful, Mom." She pulled back and looked again at the agitation on Kane's face. "But you're right. You have to get to safety."

"I'll take Gus with me," Abby repeated. "We'll go right now."

Clarke looked down. "You can't. It wasn't a coincidence that they took Gus. If he's with you, they'll attack the bunker. We can't let that happen."

Abby shared a worried glance with Kane, but nodded. "I trust that you know what you're doing, Clarke. Please, stay safe."

* * *

 

Clarke found Bellamy inside her hut, packing some of Gus' things into a bag. He looked up as she entered. "Which toys are his favorite? There's only room for one or two."

Clarke sat down heavily on the bed and pulled Gus into her lap. "The wooden horse," she said. "The one on wheels."

Bellamy located the horse in the pile of toys and dropped it in the bag. "Where's his winter coat?" he said, digging through a drawer of furs. "It might get cold, he'll need it. And what about books? Can he read? We should—"

Clarke put a hand on his arm. "Bellamy, slow down."

Bellamy didn't slow down. "They're leaving for the bunker in ten minutes. There's no time."

Clarke shook her head. "We can't send him to the bunker."

"What?" Bellamy stared at her in disbelief. "We can't let him stay here!"

"I know," answered Clarke, a small tremble in her voice. "We have to take him with us."

Bellamy looked confused. "With us? Where are we going?"

"To Becca's lab," whispered Clarke. "I think maybe…maybe we can fix him there."

"Fix him?" said Bellamy. "What's wrong with him? What's going on, Clarke?" His brow was creased with confusion. His eyes traveled over her face, reading fear and uncertainty in her expression. Then his mind jumped to a few hours before, when Clarke had remained silent while he questioned Echo's motives.

"You know why she took him," he said finally.

"I do," said Clarke. She hesitated for a moment, then rotated Gus in her lap and rolled up one of his sleeves, shifting slightly so that his small arm moved into a patch of sunlight. His tiny veins were visible through his skin, running up his arm to his wrist, spreading like the branches of a miniature tree.

Clarke looked up at Bellamy with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I didn't think it would ever matter…"

She broke off, unable to finish her sentence. But she didn't need to. The truth was right there before Bellamy's eyes, running blackly through his son's veins.

Gus was a nightblood.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is actually the first fanfiction I have ever written in my life. Please forgive any rookie mistakes, and thank you SO much for reading!!!


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